Spirited (6 page)

The brave smiled in the way of men who are thinking of indecent things. The shadows and planes of his face shifted. He narrowed his lids; his voice dropped to a husky whisper. He moved against her …

… and she realized that now he had a different sort of torment in mind for her.

“No!” she screamed. “Papa!
Papa!”

She bucked beneath him, trying to bite his hand as it held her wrists, writhing and rocking to force him off her body. Her efforts were clumsy and useless; her skirts and heavy petticoats were soaked through with rain. She felt like a prisoner in irons, shackled by the sodden layers of fabric.

He reached down to move the ruined corsetry away from her stomach. His rough fingertips painted her skin with cold red dye that the downpour diluted and smeared, so that it looked as if he had stabbed her.

Goosebumps raised on her wet skin; she felt a sharp moment of despair, and then, without thinking, she sucked saliva into her mouth and spit at him.

He blinked, and then he guffawed as the spittle smacked against his left cheek and began to run down his chin with the rainwater.

Isabella screamed at him, “No!”

He laughed harder. The thunder roared like cannonballs; lightning stabbed the clouds and the trees, illuminating them like bonfires.

As he wiped the spittle away, he reached down to touch her again. She drew away, pressing her head into the mud, closing her eyes, and wishing herself dead rather than this. He snickered at her. Her fear amused him.

Then a sharp voice rang over his laughter. The man jerked and looked up, and spoke back, chuckling and gesturing to Isabella.

Isabella tried to turn her head, but she could only shift her eyes to the left. All she could see were a pair of bloody, dirt-encrusted moccasins and leather leggings caught up with leather thongs at the knees. The leggings were fringed, the moccasins decorated with colorful quills.

The moccasins drew closer as their owner snapped at her captor. Her attacker’s merriment
faded. He shook his head and glanced down at Isabella, speaking of her as he gestured to himself.

The other man spoke again and walked toward Isabella.

His face rigid with anger, Isabella’s captor pushed his face toward hers, hissing like a snake. Then he sat back on his heels and rose to a standing position. He shook his knife at her, whirled on his heel, and stomped away.

Painfully, she turned her head and found the owner of the bloody moccasins.

She could not breathe.

He was very tall, and his hair was a deep blue-black, slicked away from his face and forehead by the rain. His brows were arched above dark, fathomless eyes. His face was sharply chiseled, with flared cheekbones and deep hollows in his cheeks, then a square jaw with a dimple in the center. The rain washed across his straight nose, and his lips parted as he stared back at her.

He stopped walking and stood shirtless, his chest slathered with blood and war paint. His breechcloth rode low on his hips; leggings were tied around his sinewy thighs and at his knees. He had long legs and long arms, and in his right hand he held a knife.

There was blood on the blade.

She scrabbled away from him; he hurried toward her, transferring his knife to his left hand and showing her his empty right palm. She shook her head wordlessly.

He said to her,
“Mahwah.”

It was the voice.

Soft in her ear, the voice she had heard whispering through the forest.

She cleared her throat, but no sound came out. She tried again to move away from him, slipping in the mud.

He glided easily to her side and grabbed her wrist. He smelled of smoke. He braced himself and pulled her up, grinning faintly as she tried to ensure that her body was shielded from his gaze while at the same time keeping her balance.

Then all thought of herself fled as she caught sight of the scene behind him.

The gallant soldiers of the 35th lay sprawled in pools of blood. Arms, legs, chests gushed with blood. None moved.

As she surveyed the scene in mute horror, she caught sight of Ben Schoten’s still form. She reeled in shock at the sight of the bloody circle atop his head.

He had been scalped.

Many of the fallen had lost their hair. As she stumbled backward in mute horror, a brave loped over to another body, grabbed up a fistful of straw-colored hair, raised a wickedly glinting knife over his head, and hacked the hair off, bringing flesh with it.

She covered her mouth with both hands. She swayed and would have fallen if the brave had not
pulled her toward him by the wrist and crushed her against his chest.

She made no sound, only panted in shock. He held her against his body without speaking, cupping the crown of her head so that she couldn’t peer around his shoulder. They stood in the rain as Isabella fought not to go mad from what she had just witnessed. She clung to him, aware that he was one of
them
, and yet not able to let go.

The lightning flashed overhead; she heard a strange groaning that reminded her of the great brig that had transported her parents and her to this terrible place. An ear-splitting crack followed, and then a huge crash.

He held her tightly and spoke in his language. It was the voice.

Isabella…

She took refuge in it, not so much listening as hanging onto it, knowing that if she stopped listening she would go mad.

Then she felt him moving his left arm. She tried to lift her head but he kept her cradled against his chest with her right hand. He spoke again, in a sort of chant.

The rain stopped immediately.

He let go of her head and she glanced up at the sky as she stepped away from him. The storm clouds scudded across the sky like a V of passenger pigeons. A scarlet sun blazed through, casting the forest in beams of crimson, as if there weren’t enough red
already—blood on bloodred coats; two dozen men slaughtered like animals …

She took another step away as the Indian warriors rushed up to the two of them, encircling them. Their faces were wet with blood.

She said to him, “Where is my father, you filthy murderer?”

He stared hard at her, shadows shifting across the angles and planes of his face.

She tried again. “My fa—”

“Father,” he repeated. He turned to one of the other Indians. They spoke for a moment. Then five of the men left the circle and dashed into the forest.

He said to Isabella, “Father.”

No one else spoke or moved. Raindrops trickled off the leaves of the trees. The waterfall rushed and roared. Her heart pounded so hard she was afraid it would burst from her chest.

“If you’ve hurt him …” Her voice shook; she twisted her hands together, her nails pressing into her palms so hard she drew blood. His face remained impassive as his glance ticked from her to the place where the men had disappeared.

He moved away—to tend, she saw, the savage who had first attacked her. He chanted over him, and opened up some sort of heathen pouch, pulling out various objects. She couldn’t quite make out what he was doing. Possibly he was praying to the Devil.

The other began to speak conversationally among
themselves; then one grabbed up a leather thong and showed it to the man next to him.

Three fresh scalps fluttered from the thong. The hair of men who had been alive only moments ago, men who had marched through the forest in her company. Men with bright red coats and shiny buttons; nursery soldiers.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to run.

I
mustn’t panic. I have to keep my wits about me.

There was a shout. Isabella and the tall man both turned their heads in its direction at the same time. There was a rustling in the thick underbrush; then two of the Indians reappeared from a thick copse of trees. One of them, a rather fleshy man, was holding a hemp-colored rope. As he stepped through the brush, he stopped and tugged on it.

Her father staggered into view. The other end of the rope was tied around his neck. His face was drenched with blood and one eye was swollen shut. But he was alive.

And he had his hair.

“Papa!” she cried. She pushed through the circle of savages and raced to his side. Carefully she raised on tiptoe and placed her arms around his neck. The Indian who held the rope tugged on it, forcing her father to stumble. Isabella turned her head toward the savage and shouted, “Leave him alone!”

All the braves laughed, except for Isabella’s rescuer. He stared at her with his dark, unblinking eyes. A muscle jumped in his cheek. Then he left the circle
and walked toward her. As he drew near, she held onto her father.

“No!” she screamed at him, then at the others. “No! Don’t touch him!”

“Poppet,” her father rasped through cracked and bleeding lips. “Do not provoke them.”

“Leave us alone!” she railed at the tall, handsome man. “Leave us!”

The man held up his empty weapon hand. He said gently to her, “Father lives.”

“You speak English!” she cried. Relief swept through her. “Then certainly you are civilized.” She bobbed a curtsey, though she had to force herself to bend her knee to these barbarians, who had butchered over two dozen men. “Sir, we are on a mission of mercy. We carry medicines to men who are very ill. We—”

“Silence,” he snapped. Then he turned on his heel. His back to her, he rejoined the cluster of men.

“Sir!” she called after him. “I beg of you! Allow me to parlay with you!”

He ignored her. As she stared after him, the circle broke up and the men began to amble down the path.

She took up her station beside her father. She held onto his torn uniform coat like a child clinging to a cloth doll. They stumbled through the mud. She was dizzy and sick with fear.

“My dear, did they harm you?” her father murmured under his breath. He scrutinized her, frowning with dismay. “Your cheek bears a bruise.”

“The tall one, he saved me.” Then she caught sight of the Indian who had struck her and said, “That one, he … he was no gentleman.” She choked back a sob and added hastily, “But I am all right, Papa.”

“These monsters. We carried a flag of truce,” he spat. “They shall pay, by God.”

“Papa… is everyone else … did anyone survive?” she asked, darting a glance at the carnage in the glade. She thought of Ben Schoten, scalped and bloody, and felt her gorge rise afresh. “If there are wounded, perhaps they will allow me to care for them.”

“That’s not the Indian way,” he said harshly. “If they meant to take any man prisoner, he would be with us already.” He looked away. “Three warriors remained behind when they took me, and they are dispatching the wounded now.”

“Oh, Papa,” she groaned. “Oh, dear heaven.”

“Courage, girl,” he urged her. “While we are alive, we have hope.”

“Papa, to kill wounded men …” She was near speechless from this new horror.

“It is the way of war, sometimes.” His face hardened. “Not the British way, however.”

She swallowed and tried to nod. Her knees were rubbery. Her body felt uncommonly light, as if she had left it.

“I did see some men take to the forest,” he added, with a note of hope. “I can only pray they will make their way to Fort William Henry, and alert Colonel
Ramsland of our plight. But the Indians have sent men after them. Of that I’m certain.”

“Was Major Whyte among them?” she asked.

“Aye.” Her father’s voice was sharp. “He was one who … ran.”

For a moment she was so shocked she couldn’t speak. “You mean … he
deserted
us?”

He clamped shut his mouth, which was answer enough. Her father was not one to speak ill of anyone, least of all a fellow officer. She thought of how Major Whyte had looked at her; it was nearly impossible to conceive that he could have left her to die.

“What is to become of us?” she asked brokenly.

“Trust in God, my dear,” her father answered gently. He lowered his head. “He will deliver us from evil.”

She closed her eyes. “Amen.”

The Indian who was leading her father jerked on the rope, and Dr. Stevens staggered forward. Isabella grabbed his bound hand and tried to help him.

“Mahwah”

It was the tall brave. He had stopped walking; his body shifted toward her, he gestured at her with his hand.

“Do as he says, girl,” her father urged her. “Don’t move him to anger.”

“I have no wish to be parted from you.” Her voice cracked with anxiety.

“Nor I you.” His glance ticked from her to the tall Indian. He took a breath and said, “But be obedient to him. I sense that you are his personal captive.
Their customs are different than ours, Isabella.” His cheeks reddened; his eyes broke contact. “According to their traditions, he may… he may do with you as he pleases.”

“Papa”
she said, stricken.

He took a ragged breath. “He speaks English. It may be that he’s a gentleman.” Then he turned back to her and said, “You know that I would die rather than see you harmed in any way.”

“Please, no, I beg of you,” she said, taking his hand and putting it against her cheek. Her blue eyes spilled with tears. “Please, Papa, don’t speak of dying. I couldn’t bear it. I’m so fearful, Papa.”

“I shan’t go without a fight,” he assured her. “Remember, Isabella. We are British. We must behave like civilized people.” He stared at the tall, handsome man. “Even if others do not.”

Chapter Five